


you and i, forever and ever

by trustingno1



Series: marry me (today and every day) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I spoke to Sherlock this morning," Mycroft says. "I understand that <i>congratulations</i> are in order."</p><p>John snorts. "I heard your conversation. He said 'Piss off, Mycroft,' and hung up." His lips twitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i, forever and ever

**Author's Note:**

> Because I saw a Tumblr post with a list of [proposal fics](http://kinklock.tumblr.com/post/119640202060/ashleigh-kinklo-i-would-loooove-to-read-proposal), and that got me thinking about who'd propose, and whether Sherlock would be able to deduce it, or if he'd have a giant, John-Watson-sized blind spot, and if - much like his best man speech - Sherlock would need help writing a proposal, or if he'd just sort of tell John they were getting married, whether he'd practice on Molly, and if they'd actually already be in an established relationship, and what Mycroft would think, and whether it would happen at a crime scene and _I want to write all of the proposals._
> 
> So. Variations on a theme. Starting with Mycroft, because Mycroft and John is one of my favourite relationships on the show.

John sighs when the black car pulls up beside him, but reluctantly climbs inside. It's been a _long_ day, and if it's a choice between this and the Tube at peak hour -  
  
"You're _slightly_ preferable to the Tube," he says to Mycroft, "but not by much."  
  
" _Always_ a pleasure, John," Mycroft replies, without looking up from the file in front of him.  
  
He turns over a photo delicately, pausing to study the next one, and John glances out the window as the car starts moving.  
  
Mycroft places two pictures side-by-side, head tilting slightly as he considers them, and John sighs. "Was there a point to - hang on, is that _me_?" he asks, incredulously, catching sight of the photos properly for the first time, and Mycroft doesn't make any move to cover them.  
  
"Over the past week," Mycroft says, mildly, "you've frequented Asprey, Heming, no less than _three_ custom-design jewellery stores and - " Mycroft's lip curls, as he finally looks up at John, " _Nude_ Jewellery."  
  
"Wasn't at all what I was expecting," John sighs, with mock disappointment, and Mycroft narrows his eyes at him.  
  
"Do you have anything to say?" he prompts, and John pretends to think.  
  
"I could be wrong," he says, evenly (echoes of a conversation long past), "but I _think_ that's none of your business."  
  
Mycroft presses his lips together for a moment. "You plan on proposing. To _Sherlock_."  
  
John grimaces. "I thought you were the smart one," he needles, off-hand and only barely derisive, but enough to get under Mycroft's skin a little, just a little, "Bit obvious."  
  
Mycroft stares at him for a moment before saying, thoughtfully - so different to Sherlock's rapid-fire delivery - "You're not overly traditional," he pauses, to turn a single page, "but having never _proposed_ to a partner who wasn't lying about the mortality of their parents, you spoke to my parents about your intentions. You didn't ask permission, and you would have spoken to both of them." Mycroft pauses and looks up, lips twisting, just slightly. "Our mother does _dote_ on him." He glances back down at the file in his lap. "You would have _apologised_ ," he continues, disinterestedly, "for not visiting in person. Explained that it would be near impossible to keep a trip from Sherlock, and you didn't want to _ruin_ the _surprise_. You would laughed about how hard it is to surprise him with anything. Promised to take in a _show_ the next time my parents are in town." He levels a stare at John. "How was that?" he asks, with mock curiosity.  
  
"Sounds like you're tapping my phone again," John says.  
  
Mycroft smiles, thinly. "Those recordings are accessed only in emergencies," he says, like John's being particularly simple, and John snorts. "You don't have my blessing," he adds.  
  
John raises his eyebrows, head jerking, just once. "Cheers. Not asking for it." Mycroft frowns, and John leans forward, studying him. "Oh, God. Is this your version of the 'if you break my brother's heart' speech?" he asks.  
  
"Of course not," he demurs. A pause. "You've already broken it, several times over."  
  
John's chin drops and he nods. "Right. We're done here. Stop the car."  
  
Mycroft studies him for a long moment, before nodding to the driver, discretely watching them in the rearview mirror.  
  
John barely waits until it's stopped before he jumps out, slamming the door behind him.  
  
He _knew_ he should've braved the Tube.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sherlock's sitting at the kitchen table when John stomps into the flat.  
  
"Hey," John says, and Sherlock lifts his head to accept a quick kiss - and when he pulls back, there's a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips that he no longer tries to fight, and John brushes a thumb over his cheek affectionately as he props a hip against the table.  
  
Sherlock's gaze flits over him for a couple of seconds before he sighs, loudly. "What did my brother want this time?"  
  
"How could you tell?" John asks, and Sherlock smirks.  
  
"You have the," he gestures, torn between throttling and stabbing, "murder-y demeanor of someone forced to endure Mycroft's company."  
  
"Murder-y?" John repeats, amused.  
  
"You're later than you should be, you lack the distinct odour of one pressed up against other commuters, your hair's more windswept than just a walk from the station would warrant-" John touches his hair, automatically, "You accepted a lift from Mycroft - always a mistake - and needed to," he waves one hand, lazily, "cool down after you spoke." He glances up at John. "Like I said. Murder-y."  
  
"He's the biggest dick I've ever met," John says, in agreement, and Sherlock looks so _indignant_ , so _appalled_ at not being the most _anything_ , eyebrows drawing together and mouth falling open and it's so ridiculously dramatic and endearing that John can't help but snort in laughter.  
  
" _He_ is?" Sherlock demands.  
  
John gazes at him, fondly, and Sherlock scowls back, and in the silence of their kitchen, just him and the most ridiculous man he's ever met, weeks of half-formed plans and speeches fly out the window when he opens his mouth and says, simply, "Marry me."  
  
Sherlock freezes, and John swears, under his breath.  
  
"Oh, that was rubbish," John says, and Sherlock just blinks at him.  
  
"I," Sherlock begins, before breaking off. He licks his lips and tries again, "Are you-"  
  
"I was - working on a speech," John says, stiffly. "It was - better than that."  
  
"Did it involve poetry?" Sherlock asks, somewhat warily.  
  
"I've never written you poetry."  
  
"For which I am eminently grateful."  
  
"Oh, you cock," John murmurs, without heat.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, turning back to his slides, and _John_ pauses.  
  
"You can't - it needs to be more _romantic_ than this," John says.  
  
"According to whom?" Sherlock asks, enunciating his words, adjusting the focus of the microscope.  
  
John gestures with his arms. " _People_."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "John, people-"  
  
"- are idiots, yes, I know," John finishes. He sighs. "Sherlock - proposals, getting married - it should be romantic. Not something blurted out over," he squints at the setup, "what the hell is that?"  
  
"Dead leukocytes," Sherlock says carefully, after a tiny hesitation.  
  
"Christ, it's pus, isn't it?"  
  
"Like I said," Sherlock says, peevishly, " _Leukocytes_."  
  
"Very romantic," John deadpans, and Sherlock lifts his head, but doesn't turn to John.  
  
"I imagine you think I understand very little of _romance_ ," Sherlock says, quietly, to the empty chair opposite him, "And to be fair, I never thought _myself_ capable of understanding. I never wanted _friends_ , let alone a partner -" he pauses, slightly, voice softening further, "in every sense of the word - until I met you. And you remain best man I've ever known. So the fact that you want to spend the rest of your life with _me_ , John Watson, is the very _definition_ of romance." He glances up at John, now. "Wouldn't you say?"  
  
John's throat is tight. "You're such an arse," he mumbles, tugging Sherlock to his feet, pulling him closer, "pissing all over my proposal like that."  
  
"I thought it wasn't a proposal," Sherlock says, against his mouth, and John bites down lightly on his lower lip for a moment in retaliation.  
  
"Shut up," he whispers, nose brushing Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock turns his head into the kiss, slow and sweet and full of promise.  
  
  
*  
  
  
He can't say he's _surprised_ , exactly, to find Mycroft waiting in his office the next morning. Annoyed, yes. Resigned, more so. But no, not surprised.  
  
"Isn't this a bit of a turn-up?" John deadpans, closing the door behind him.  
  
"I spoke to Sherlock this morning," Mycroft says, ignoring him. "I understand that _congratulations_ are in order."  
  
John snorts, taking a seat behind his desk. "I heard your conversation. He said 'Piss off, Mycroft,' and hung up." His lips twitch.  
  
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "I didn't say he _told_ me."  
  
"Very clever," John says, drily, and Mycroft tilts his head to the side. "Look," John says, bracing his elbows on the desk, "He's your brother. I _get_ that. But he doesn't need your protection." He pauses. "Well, not from me. Legally, your protection might come in handy," he kids, and Mycroft's gaze is withering.  
  
"My brother loved our dog _deeply_ ," he says, apropos of nothing, but John's learned to just roll with it, "The loss of Redbeard affected him more profoundly than anyone expected - particularly Sherlock himself. He's devoted his life to making sure he never forms attachments strong enough to feel grief like that again."  
  
John raises his eyebrows. "Did you just compare me to a dog?" and Mycroft smiles, wanly. "Mycroft-" he says, and there's _so much_ he can't say (promises he won't be making to _Mycroft_ , vows he murmurs against Sherlock's temple), but _this_ he can offer him. "Sherlock," he says, roughly, "is the best thing. That's ever happened to me. I'm not going _anywhere_. And if you have a problem with that, we should sort it out before we're family." Mycroft grimaces, and John points out, a little tetchily, "Yeah, I'm not exactly thrilled, either."  
  
He holds Mycroft's gaze for a long moment, before Mycroft nods slightly and rises.  
  
"Apologies for keeping you," he says, insincerely, and John rolls his eyes.  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"I'm not," Mycroft agrees, re-buttoning his jacket.  
  
"That's it?" John teases, lightly. "I was expecting a bribe to break it off. Got to say, I'm a little disappointed."  
  
"I knew that that would be," Mycroft hesitates - says, delicately, "inadvisable."  
  
" _Inadvisable_?" John mouths, and Mycroft ignores him.  
  
"You make Sherlock _happy_ ," Mycroft says, with a bit more disbelief than John feels is really necessary, "For reasons I doubt I'll ever fully understand."  
  
"You don't need to," John says, firmly, with a tight, toothless smile.  
  
Mycroft nods, in what would almost be acquiescence in someone else. "Good day, John."  
  
John lets him open the door. "You _know_ this'll be in my wedding speech," he says, with a straight face, "Proposing after being threatened by Sherlock's big brother."  
  
" _Threatened_ ," Mycroft laughs, then, tilting his head to the side, as sincere as John's ever seen him, "I do look forward to it."  
  
"You're not invited," John deadpans, but he doesn't bother schooling his expression as Mycroft studies him for a long moment.  
  
"Of course not," he finally replies, genially.  
  
"Over my dead body," John insists.  
  
"Oh, they'd never find your body," Mycroft says, mildly, examining the tip of his umbrella, and John's eyebrows rise, incredulously. " _That_ ," Mycroft, says, off his look, "John, was a threat." He finally opens the door, turning to add with a small smile, "This _will_ be fun."  
  
(And when the receptionist buzzes him to let him know that his first patient's arrived, John's still staring at the open door Mycroft left behind him).  
  



End file.
